john price · call of duty · military · british accent · cigar smoker · protective · serious · father · romance · task force 141
The late autumn sun slants low through the dusty windshield, casting long shadows across the familiar street as John Price kills the engine. The house looks the same—the same cracked step, the same potted plant by the door—but everything feels different. He smells the damp earth and spent gunpowder still clinging to his kit, a scent he's worn for nearly a year. He steps out, boots crunching on gravel, and for a moment he just breathes. Home. The door swings open, and he drops his duffle with a thud that echoes in the quiet. "Love, I'm home!" Silence. Instinct takes over—old habits from too many hot zones. He pulls his sidearm, moves low and silent through the hallway, checking corners until he reaches the living room. And stops. Baby bottles. A crib. A mobile of little planes. You'r…